High Moor (19 page)

“Marie, what did I tell you. Get here this second,” said Mrs Williams, grabbing her daughter’s wrist in a vice grip. She turned to the doctor. “I’m ever so sorry about that, Doctor…”

“Schneider, Miss,” said the doctor in an American accent. “Doctor Carl Schneider, at your service.”

***

22nd June 1986. Outside John's House, High Moor. 21.10.

Steven drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and peered at the house. He saw the flickering glow of the television set through the curtains in the living room and, at the rear of the house, one of the bedroom lights was on. To his keen detective skills, this indicated that George Simpson was a fucking idiot who’d ignored all of the warnings and decided watch the bloody football instead.

He checked his watch. The moon would rise in about ten minutes. He reached to the glove compartment of his car and took out a pistol. He checked the ammunition and stuffed the weapon into his jacket pocket.

“Fuck it,” he said, and got out of the car.

***

22nd June 1986. Hamsterley Forest. 21:18.

Joseph stepped out of his Caravan and took a long drag from the cigar in his hand. The moon was rising. Already he could feel her tugging at his blood, energizing him until it took an act of sheer will to prevent him from changing right there and singing a joyful lament. The camp was quiet. The others moved around in silence, casting him sideways glances. Doubting his judgement. It made no difference. In the morning, the injured would have healed, and they could leave this place forever.

“She always did call to you more, Joseph. As if you were a little moonstruck yourself.”

Joseph did not turn to face the speaker immediately. He inhaled another lungful of smoke, enjoying its taste as it rolled over his tongue and into his chest, savouring it. It would, after all, be his last. He wrestled with his fear and regret for control of his emotions, and when he won that battle, he turned to the source of the next.

“She calls to you, too, Sebastian. After all, you are Mirela’s son, as much as I.”

Sebastian stepped from the shadows and walked across to his brother. “I am surprised to find you here, if I am honest. I would have expected you to be out cleaning up your mess. Instead, I find you lazing around a campfire. Mother would never have approved.”

Joseph shrugged. “Mother is dead. She no longer cares what I do. It would seem that my little brother at least still looks out for me.”

“You are four minutes older than me, Joseph. It makes no difference.”

“I know, but you will always be my little brother.”

“Why did you let them live, Joseph? Bad enough that you defy your Pack once, but then to compound it like this? It’s irresponsible, even for you.”

Joseph picked up a piece of wood and raked over the embers of the fire. “The American is dealing with that particular problem. I thought it better that we stay far away, to avoid any suspicion.”

“Schneider? Our father, the great werewolf hunter?”

“Can you think of anyone better? He’s been slaughtering our kind for over forty years. Two young boys should not present a problem.”

“He killed our mother. You should have torn his throat out there and then.”

“You are upset about Mirela? Now? If we had not fled then, you and the rest of my ’family’ would have killed her years ago.”

Sebastian grasped the lapel of Joseph’s jacket and brought him up close. “Vengeance demands it. I was not happy about the situation with Mother, but the law is clear. Moonstruck need to be killed. You violated that law, and worse, you allowed her to rampage through the countryside, killing innocents and putting every one of us at risk. Everything that has happened here is your fault.”

Joseph nodded. “I know. I take full responsibility for my actions. I only ask that you let the others go. Return to the Pack.”

Sebastian looked at his brother and shook his head. “You know I can’t do that, Joseph.”

The moon rose above the horizon, bathing the clearing in a cool, white light that contrasted against the warm flicker of the campfire. Joseph looked into the eyes of his brother as they turned into flat phosphorescent disks.

“I’m glad they sent you, Sebastian. It was good to see you again.”

***

22nd June 1986. Bishop Auckland General Hospital. 21:18.

Marie felt Michael’s hand twitch in hers. She looked up at her mother, who was reading a magazine. “Mam, can you get me a drink from the machine please?”

“That’s all the way down in reception, Marie. We’ll be going soon, and I’ll get you a drink on the way out.”

“But, Mam, we’ve been here ages, and I’m really thirsty. Please?”

“OK, but if I go, you do not leave this room. Got it?”

“Got it. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Mrs Williams eyed her daughter with suspicion. She put down her magazine, took her purse from her bag, and started the long walk back to the hospital entrance.

Michael twitched again. His hand tightened on Marie’s.

“Michael? It’s me, Marie. Are you awake?”

The boy twitched again, a violent movement that jerked Marie’s arm.

“Michael, stop it. You’re hurting my arm.”

Michael’s eyes snapped open, and he looked at his sister with feral yellow eyes. Another spasm hit, harder this time. Michael arched his back and screamed in pain, gripping his sister’s arm so tight that his knuckles turned white.

***

22nd June 1986. John's House, High Moor. 21:18.

John felt sick. His body oozed sweat and he was on fire inside, although his skin was cold, almost numb in contrast. He could hear his dad downstairs. He’d been on the telephone to his friend, Alan, ever since the football had finished. John had been surprised to learn a number of brand-new curse words, despite having no idea to the meaning of most of them. A stab of pain shot through his stomach.

He tried to shout out to his parents, but the words came out as a croak. “Dad, it’s happening. Please.”

Another stab of pain lanced through him. He fell to the floor, catching the power cables of his computer and television as he fell. They slid from the desk and crashed onto the floor beside him. John heard footsteps on the stairs.

His insides twisted. He felt his internal organs rearranging themselves. Then the bones began to stretch and snap. He screamed in abject agony as his spine warped and bone knives burst through his gums. The scream became more guttural, then turned into a howl.

George and Caroline Simpson burst into John’s bedroom, just as their son’s transformation completed.

***

22nd June 1986. Bishop Auckland General Hospital. 21:22.

“Michael, let go. Let go, you fuck-wad, that hurts.” Marie cried and pulled her arm away.

Michael cried out. “Marie, run. RUN.” His words ran into a long guttural scream. His face elongated. Fangs burst through bloody gums. Hands twisted and turned into talons. Hair grew from the pores on his skin.

Marie turned and ran from the room. She sprinted down the corridor, screaming for her mother, trying to block out the howling from her brother’s room.

***

Carl saw the girl run from the room. “About fucking time, girlie.”

He stepped from the storeroom into the corridor, then slipped into the boy’s room and closed the door behind him. In all his years hunting werewolves, Carl had never witnessed the transformation from man to beast firsthand. The sight was distressing, even to him. The creature thrashed on the bed, howling in agony as its bones snapped and reformed. The transformation was almost complete. He didn’t have much time.

All doubts left him. This was no longer the cold-blooded murder of a comatose child. This was just another werewolf, plain and simple, and he knew how to deal with werewolves.

He removed a syringe from the jacket of his white lab coat and stepped around the bed, avoiding the thrashing talons and snapping teeth of the transforming creature.

“For what it’s worth, kid, I’m sorry.”

Carl injected the contents of the syringe into the IV and stepped back. He had no idea if the colloidal silver solution would work, but he figured it was worth a try, given the messy alternatives.

The werewolf stopped thrashing and opened its eyes. The transformation was complete, and the silver compound didn’t seem to be doing a damn thing. It fixed its eyes on Carl and crouched, ready to attack. Carl cursed and backed away from the creature, fumbling in his pockets for his gun.

So much for the easy way.

Carl’s sweating hand wrapped around the grip of the pistol. He tried to yank the weapon out from his coat, but it caught on the fabric. Carl tugged at the 9mm in desperation. The werewolf tensed its muscles and leaped.

***

22nd June 1986. John's House, High Moor. 21:24.

George stood transfixed in the doorway, as the creature that had once been his son got to its feet. His mind screamed at him that this couldn't be real, despite the evidence of his senses.

Caroline grabbed her husband’s shoulder for support. “John? Oh God, John, is that you?”

The werewolf turned to face them. It stood over six feet tall and was covered in coarse, dark-brown fur. Its ears flattened against its head and it snarled.

George pushed his wife back, out of the room. Adrenaline flooded his system, numbing his limbs. He stumbled out of the room and slammed the door closed as the werewolf pounced. The pine door reverberated when the monster collided with it.

“Get up, Caroline. We have to get out of here.”

She tried to shake off her husband and reached for the door. “But what about John. What about my baby?”

The door shuddered as the werewolf threw itself against it. A long crack appeared on its surface.

George dragged his wife back along the hallway to the stairs. “There’s nothing of John in that room. Come on, woman, for fuck’s sake. That door won’t hold it for long.”

A furious howl emanated from their son’s bedroom as the werewolf redoubled its efforts to escape. The sound of wood splintering could be heard above the howl. Caroline regained her senses and hurried down the stairs, behind her husband.

George reached the back door as a loud crash from upstairs confirmed that the pine bedroom door had lost its battle. “Where the hell are the keys for the door, Caroline?”

“Well, if you put them where they’re supposed to be, you’d know.”

“Jesus Christ, Caroline. Not now. Where are the fucking keys?”

George heard heavy footsteps on the landing above and the creak of the stairs. He scattered papers and jars from the work surface. “Where the fucking hell are the fucking bastard keys?”

Caroline reached over to the rack on the wall, where the house and car keys were kept, and handed them to George with trembling hands. George dropped them. While he groped on the floor, Caroline put her hand on her husband’s shoulder. “George, it’s too late. It’s here.”

There was no trace of John in the eyes of the creature before them. Only the kitchen worktop stood between them, and the beast that had once been their son. George hugged his wife as the werewolf tensed its muscles to pounce.

The back door flew open, the wood splintering around the lock as a result of Steven’s kick. He raised his pistol and fired twice at the centre of the werewolf’s chest. The creature fell back, and landed on the kitchen floor, behind the counter.

Caroline put her hands up to her face. “Oh God, you shot him. You shot my boy.”

Steven ignored her and moved around the edge of the counter, pistol raised. When he got to the other side, he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Relax. I shot him with tranquilisers and paralytics. Stuck enough sedatives in him to knock out a rhino.”

George and Caroline walked up to stand behind Steven and peered over his shoulder. The werewolf was flat on its back, with two darts protruding from its chest. It was snoring.

Steven took off his backpack and removed a long length of very thick chain. “I have no idea how long that stuff is going to take to wear off. George, would you mind giving me a hand, before we find out the hard way?”

***

22nd June 1986. Bishop Auckland General Hospital. 21:25.

Carl grunted as he pushed the body of Michael Williams aside and got to his feet. That was a very close call. The silver solution kicked in when the werewolf was in mid-flight, and Carl was struggling to draw his weapon. The effect had been instantaneous. Fangs and hair retreated, and by the time the boy collided with him, he was just a boy. A dead boy.

Carl picked up Michael’s body and laid it out on the bed.

“I’m sorry, kid. Really, I am.”

An alarm rang in the nurse’s station. Carl was surprised that no one had come to investigate the noise before now. He closed the boy’s eyes with his right hand, stepped out of the room, and walked away.

23rd June 1986. John's House, High Moor. 04.44.

Steven walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. The faint glowing embers on the horizon an hour ago had burst into a conflagration that ignited the clouds and pushed back the night. The first glimmering fingers of sunlight danced through the branches of a sycamore tree. Steven let out a long breath that was one part relief and two parts exhaustion.